Travel Through Time
by Newsgirl Sparrow
Summary: Racetrack, Snitch, Specs, Skittery, Jack, and Spot are stranded througout the 20th century. With help from local girls, will they be able to return to 1899?
1. the Hourglass

My first chapter…yay! Well, I don't know if I need to do this, but everyone else seems to, so why not be a sheep? Disclaimer: I don't own the newsies, they're just locked up in my closet, the other main characters own themselves, please don't sue me, yadda yadda yadda.

"Extra, extra!" cried Racetrack Higgins as he walked by the Sheepshead Races attempting to sell the evening edition of the World. He had been selling for what seemed like hours, yet he had sold only a little more than half of his stack of papers. As the darkness became thicker and the crowds thinner, he reluctantly accepted the fact that he couldn't sell anymore papers that evening and would have to return to the lodging house with only just enough money to pay the night's rent. He thought mournfully of the dinner he wouldn't have and of borrowing money off his friends to buy papers the next day. 'Could things worse?' he thought and it promptly began to rain.

He was within sight of the lodging house when a man ran out of an alley and jumped in front of him. In the dim light Racetrack could see the older man's face looked pale, worn, and mildly insane. His outfit appeared normal, except for a strange pair of red, canvas shoes.

"Here," said the man offering a small trinket to Racetrack. Race just stared at him bewildered. "For God's sake, please, take it! I can't stand it anymore!" the man screamed. Racetrack, still bewildered, took the object. With that, the man ran – no…was he skipping? -- away and shouted "Haha, free!"

Race stared at the mysterious object. It was a miniature hourglass with bright blue sand inside. The frame appeared to be made of real gold. Why had the man just given it to him? If it was in fact real gold, the piece could have been sold for a good deal of money. Stranger still, was how happy he seemed to be to get rid of the glass. Racetrack hurried to the lodging house, both to get out of the rain and to tell his friends of this strange event.

Once inside, he related the strange encounter to his friends – Spot, Snitch, Jack, and Specs – who were previously engaged in a game of poker. "So why do you think he was so glad to get rid of the thing?" asked Specs.

"I dunno," admitted Race. "Maybe he stole it off a dead guy or somethin',"

"I doubt it. What sorta dead guy carries an hour glass with him?" said Snitch.

"How should I know what dead guys like to carry? All I know is, it can't be just a normal thing. There must be somethin' more to it." Racetrack replied.

"Maybe it's cursed. Or magic." Jack said, remembering stories his mother used to tell him when he was little. "I mean, not like I believe in that stuff or anything," he added hastily.

"So, maybe we should try flipping it? To see if it works…" suggested Specs. The others nodded in agreement. This was followed by a long pause. "Does anyone wanna go first," he added. Another long pause.

"Why don't we all go at the same time?" said Spot. The others agreed with quiet 'yeah's and 'ok's. Slowly, they all held or touched some part of the glass. "On three," said Spot. "One…two…three!" In one swift motion they turned the glass upside down.

The bright blue sand trickled down. The room disappeared. The newsboys felt as if their bodies were being torn apart, pulled in a million directions as they drifted in an endless sea of blackness. Then it stopped. On a top bunk in the newsies' lodging house where minutes earlier five boys and a small gold hourglass had been, there was now nothing.


	2. The Roaring Twenties

Chapter 2 hooray! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, you were all so nice! I hope you like this chapter as much!

New York City, October 20th, 1929

"Ahhhh!" Thud. "Ouch, what the…"

Spot Conlon got up off the pavement slowly and rubbed his sore bottom. He had, it seemed, fallen straight out of the sky. But how? He certainly hadn't fallen off the bunk bed in the lodging house because there didn't seem to be any lodging house. Looking around, he noticed a small golden disc on the ground, in the same place that he had fallen. He picked it up and examined it. It looked a little bit familiar. In fact, it looked like the base of –

"The hourglass…" whispered Spot. "But how'd it get here? How'd I get here? What is here?" The alley in which he was standing was completely unfamiliar. And, it seemed, none of the other newsies had arrived with him. "If they went off with out me, I'll soak 'em!" With that, Spot wandered off, hoping to figure out where he was and, perhaps, beat up some of his comrades -- if he was so fortunate as to find them, that is.

"Mrs. Taylor, I fixed the leak you were talking about! Is there anything else you want me to do before I go?" called Randy Peterson or, as her friend liked to call her, Fighter. She was currently employed as a maid/handyman for Clarissa Taylor, wife of Charles Taylor the Wall Street millionaire. The job was one Fighter despised, but at least it was a job, right? Plus, she had to admit, the handyman part of it was sort of fun.

"Oh, no dear, that's fine, thank you. Only…" Mrs. Taylor took a breath.

Here it comes again, Fighter thought. The same comment, every Friday. Stay calm, she reminded herself.

"Randy, I really wish," said Mrs. Taylor, "that you would wear a skirt to work. It's…well, it's not exactly normal for girls to be going around in pants and…"

"Mrs. Taylor," Fighter cut her off, teeth clenched, "I've told you many, many times that I do not wear skirts." Stay calm, she told herself. Don't say anything stupid. Don't get yourself fired again! Good God, this was taking every ounce of self-control she had. "Skirts, I believe, are completely impractical and they interfere with my work. So if you'd kindly stop asking me to wear one I'd be ever so happy." The way she said that last sentence, as well as the flames of anger in her piercing, electric blue eyes, told Mrs. Taylor that there was no point in arguing any further.

Opening the door she said, "Alright, Randy, I'm sorry I mentioned it. Have a nice weekend."

Fighter hurried out the door ready to explode with suppressed anger. Why care so much about that stupid job that she wouldn't tell that stupid Mrs. Taylor what was really on her mind? Oh yes, she remembered. She had gotten fired from her past four jobs for lashing out at her employers. Best not screw this up because making another rich and influential enemy meant little chance of finding another job.

"Hey, what're you looking at!" she yelled at a boy dressed in slightly old-fashioned clothes. Wow, it felt good to yell at someone! The boy held up his hands as if to say, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Please stop yelling at me for no apparent reason; it's very confusing and unsettling."

Having released some of her anger, Fighter was feeling much better. She looked at the sky and noticed it was getting a bit dark. "Oh shoot," she thought. Better hurry!" She ran off quickly so she wouldn't be late to her other, less legal, job.

It was dark out as Fighter lifted large barrels out of a wagon and carried them down a short alley through a small back door.

"Ya sure ya can handle that, sweet face?" the man driving the wagon asked her when she picked up the first barrel.

"Yeah, Snake Eyes, and if ya call me "sweet face" again I'll break yer legs." As nice as it might have been to handicap him right then and there, she made it a rule to give a warning first. After all, she didn't want to be known as an out-and-out villain. Plus her hands were full. Drat.

"Ya'd betta believe 'er Snake Eyes," added the other man in the wagon. "Ya know Eddie the Limp? She the one gived him the limp!" Fighter laughed -- she hadn't known how famous she was – and finished unloading the barrels. Then she left the alley through the same door as the barrels.

Inside, there was noise, loud talking and laughter, jazz music, and thick cigarette smoke – telltale signs of a speakeasy. Danny's Broadway Club to be exact. Fighter felt extremely happy to be part of the rebellion against Prohibition, an extremely stupid law as far as she was concerned. In the next election she would definitely vote (hooray for women's suffrage!) Democrat because they were in favor of doing away with the alcohol ban.

"Hey, Fighter, over here!" Fighter turned and caught sight of a girl, average height with long, brown hair dashing through the crowd ("Sorry, pardon me, oops, 'scuse me," she said as she bumped into countless people). The girl was waving like mad.

"Air!" Fighter called back to her long time friend.

"Hey, how's it going? Gee, I'm really thirsty. Could I have a gin and tonic, please?" asked Air.

"Sure thing. 50 cents please."

"Aww, come on Fighter. A free one for a friend?"

"Air, I'm shocked! I thought you knew me better than to think for a second that I would give you a drink on the house! Now pay up missy or you're outta here." Fighter's face was total seriousness for about five seconds before smile started creeping across her face. Still, Air knew that although her friend was joking about kicking her out, there was about as much chance of getting a free drink as there was of seeing Fighter do the Charleston in a pink, sequiny dress. So, she grudgingly forked over two quarters.

The two went to the bar and proceeded to chat and sip drinks. Then in came a boy in his late teens looking utterly flustered. Fighter noticed his odd clothes and remembered yelling at him earlier. "'Scuse me, ladies," said the boy, who, you may have guessed by now, was in fact the one and only Spot Conlon, "do you know what the date is?"

"October 20th," said Air.

"No, I mean the full date. The year and all."

"Um, 1929, why?" replied Air.

"Well, ya see, I don't think I'm supposed to be here. They haven't gotten around to inventing a time machine yet, have they?"

"Listen pal, I don't think you're supposed to be here either," Fighter told him.

"Really?" Spot was astonished.

Fighter nodded and said in her most matter of fact voice, "Yes. Given the condition yer mind is in, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in a place that serves large quantities of illegal alcohol."

The-the-the-that's all folks! For now anyway. Join us next time, as Snitch explores the exciting world of 1939!


End file.
